


A Faraway Song

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also canon era typical homophobic language, Awkward Romance, Confused Javert, Confused Valjean, Javert is just repressed, Light Angst, M/M, Sexuality, Some dub-con but nothing awful, Valjean is confused, Well - Freeform, awkward virgins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7127132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Valjean and Javert, on paths divergent. </p><p>They are not made for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Faraway Song

(i)

She was not the prettiest girl in the village, but then he was not the most handsome lad, so they were well suited.

Jean waited for her outside of the dairy, hidden around the corner in case anyone spotted him hiding there. Marcel had told him to comb his hair, wash his face, wear his Sunday shirt, and finally he had declared him fit for the job. His brother-in-law was the only one Jean had told about his meeting with Matilde; he had made Marcel promise that he would not even tell Jeanne, not before and certainly not after. Marcel had just smiled and given him a look, pleased that his shy young charge had finally found a girl who caught his eye. At sixteen, he was later than most in doing so.

Jean had not told him the truth; that Matilde had simply been the first girl he saw after he had made a resolution with himself, a promise to take a girl for a walk just as the other boys had all done. Jean had never done it because he did not want to, but with every passing spring and the other youngsters pledging to one another, he had begun to wonder if there was something wrong with him.

So he made his promise and Matilde had been there. She was not ugly – even his unpractised eye knew that – but she had thick, milkmaid’s arms and one blue eye, one brown. She laughed too much and, at twenty years old, seemed to be unconcerned at being unattached. Jean was not so sure of that since he had asked her; she had taken him up too quickly, and it occurred to him that he was not the only one uncomfortable in his own skin. Marcel had not laughed at his choice though, so it could not have been a bad one. 

The afternoon was a hot one and Jean regretted his collar, working a finger under the tight material and trying to stay still so he did not sweat any more than he already was. He did not know where he would take Matilde, other than somewhere that they would not been seen, but he fancied that he might walk them towards the river. It was cooler down there, sheltered under the trees that lined the banks and he was so hot that he thought he might faint if he stayed out in the sun for much longer. Mercifully, Matilde appeared just as the church bell at the opposite end of the village struck one, and he did not have to stand still any longer.

She wore a blue dress, the blue of the May sky, and her red hair was tied into two neat plaits with scraps of matching ribbon. She did not appear affected by the heat at all, her skin still pale and her brow dry. Jean swallowed, his throat rough, and tried to smile. It was harder than he thought it would be.

“Good afternoon,” she said, and she smiled at him, hers looking much more real than his felt, “It is a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

“Beautiful,” he stammered, dropping his head to look at his boots, and then he looked up sharply, because she was laughing. He did not know why she should be laughing.

“I – I thought we might walk down to the river,” he said, trying to find something in her eyes that would tell him what he should do. Marcel had not prepared him well enough for this. She was already laughing at him and-

“I love the water,” she said, and her voice was warm, but at least she had stopped laughing. 

“Shall we?” he asked, holding out his arm for her to take. She blushed a little, her white skin finally finding some colour, and hooked her arm through his. Marcel had told him how to do this at least. Matilde was only an inch or two shorter than he was and her hand was not dainty on his arm, but it was not a terrible thing to have her besides him, if he had to have anyone. Matilde had always been kind to him, kind when many of the other girls would give him looks that he did not understand, and she did not talk idly like some of them did. Jean had no skill with idle talk.

They were silent as they walked towards the river, save for her quiet hum, and he found that he was moving his head closer to listen to the tune. It was an old song, one that his father used to play on the fiddle, and he was comforted by it; it was a tune that used to put him to sleep, when he was small. Sometimes Jeanne sang it to the children and he summoned his courage with the thought of their smiles. He could do this. If he were to marry Matilde and they lived with Jeanne and Marcel, there would be more money for the children, at least until they had babes of their own.

At the water’s edge, he sat down and pulled off his boots, dangling his feet into the cool water.

“Sit with me, would you?” he asked, taking Matilde’s hand and pulling her down to his side. She took off her shoes and pulled up her skirt, her own feet thrust into the river besides his. 

“Ah,” she sighed, leaning into him a little, “It is entirely too hot today, do you not think?”

“It is,” he said, and then stopped, because he did not know what to say next. She saved him once again, moving her hand to rest atop his and laughing.

“You do not have very much to say, Jean,” she said, “I wonder why that is. Are you scared of me? I am quite gentle, you know.”

“N – not at all,” he turned quickly, his face too close to hers, and pulled back before she could turn and look him in the eye, “I am – I have not walked out before.”

His own voice sounded strangled and he felt more blood rush to his face, eyes falling shut from the sheer weight of his embarrassment. This was a bad idea. He should not have believed that he was capable of such a thing. He had never been very much like the other boys his age.

His mind stopped racing when he felt her hand on his cheek, turning him towards her, and he let her because he did not know what else to do. He started when he felt her breath whisper across his mouth as she said, “Open your eyes, Jean. Look at me.”

He forced himself to do as she had bidden, finding that their noses were almost touching. She was red too now, as red as he felt, which was a relief, but she was still smiling. When her mouth touched his, he could feel the curve of her lips. This was a kiss. He had seen Marcel kiss Jeanne like this, when they did not know he was watching. He tried to remember how he was supposed to respond, other than to push back against her.

Matilde’s lips were soft, not like his own, and he found that he did not mind kissing so much. It was better than having to think of something to say, anyway. She snaked an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer and he fitted his own arm around her waist.  
Once, he had seen Marcel open his mouth and he thought to try that now, parting his lips and waiting for her to react. He had thought that she might do the same, so was surprised when she pulled back and smiled. It was a sad smile. 

“Oh Jean,” she said, so gentle that his eyes began to prickle. She laid a hand against his cheek once more and rested her forehead on his, “You’re a good boy. Such a good boy.”

He did not know how to answer her, because he did not know why she had pulled away.

“Someday, I’m sure that you will make somebody very happy,” she murmured, “But I do not think it will be me.”

They sat together a little longer, and she still leaned into him, but he felt as though he could breathe suddenly and he talked a little more than he had before. He told her about his nephews and nieces, stories of their antics, and she listened carefully, the strangest look in her eyes when she allowed him to pull her to her feet. At her door, she kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand.

When Marcel asked him how his walk had been, Jean could not tell him what had gone wrong. He could only think that, secretly, his relief was more than he could say. 

(ii)

The convicts were rarely quiet at night, as one could only expect from a large group of men who were packed in like fish in a bucket. When Javert had first come to Toulon, he had questioned the sense of having the men sleep in such close quarters; surely the extreme discomfort made them less productive as they slept badly, and surely they were more prone to catching disease from one another. When Javert brought it up, the captain laughed at him, and told him that he would soon learn. Javert was not sure that he had learned, but he did know to keep his opinions to himself. Nobody seemed to much care what a lowly guard had to say.

He had soon discovered another disadvantage to having the men chained so close that they practically slept upon one another, and whilst his fellow guards found it cause for humour, Javert did not let it go so easily. The men – they – they touched one another, claimed one another like a man claimed a woman, and at night Javert could hear them in the darkness. If they thought they were secretive, they were mistaken, for every guard knew and so did the other convicts. There were cries in the night, soft sobs and angry, low murmurs that told a tale of advantage taken and strength tested. These noises were troubling, but the others were worse; the breathless sighs, the groans, the moans that seemed to pierce Javert’s heart far more than the distress of the victims. One expected criminals to overpower and punish the weak. One did not expect them to love one another.

Javert had been given the night shift, for the third week in a row. He was not due to do so much, but the older guards changed the shifts as they pleased, and Javert was both younger and more inexperienced. He had no talent with words to talk the captain into changing his working hours to something more reasonable, and so he said nothing, working his nights without a word. Someday, if he worked hard and well, perhaps he would be able to choose when he worked or when he did not. He could be patient until then. He had been patient before.

It had been a cold day, and the night was freezing; Javert had almost slipped on ice in the yard as he was walking across to the dormitory. The dormitory was only heated by a single log burner that did not even have the strength to keep the frost from the windows. The convicts at least had rough blankets to huddle beneath and the heat of one another’s bodies. The guards, pacing for the long, dark hours, had nothing. Javert had been so cold by the end of last night that his hands were blue. This evening, Lenoir had taken pity on him and given him a pair of gloves to wear, and an extra layer to go beneath his shirt. Lenoir was decent enough, one of the few who did not avoid Javert or treat him with contempt. Javert was not sure that he had ever liked another person, but he thought that he could like Lenoir, if he proved himself worthy of such a thing.

“Hope they’ll be easy enough tonight,” Estan, his partner for the shift, was leaning by the burner, hands held over the flames, “Where did you get them gloves?”

“Lenoir gave them to me. As a loan.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Estan said, and he almost seemed about to laugh, although Javert did not know why, “Generous chap, our Lenoir. Always thinking of others. Some more often, of course.”

If Estan was trying to tell Javert something, he did not understand it, and he told the man so.

“He just has his favourites, is all,” was the reply.

Javert felt a warmth in his chest, brief but strong. He had never been anyone’s favourite.

Estan leered at him for a moment longer and then gave up, turning back to the burner. He would not move far, Javert knew, now he had claimed his spot, and so Javert resigned himself to walking the length of the dormitory whilst Estan took the door. It was tiring, to spend his hours pacing, but at least it afforded him a little warmth in his blood.

A weak moon lit the room with pale light, cold light, and Javert could see the outlines of the men huddled together beneath their blankets. He walked the line once, checking the chains at the bare ankles which slid, vulnerable, from the heat of the bunks. The place was quiet, quieter than it had been for a long while; the cold tended to do that. The extra exertion to stay warm tired the men quicker than the heat of summer did. Indeed, the only sounds were snores and the clink of chains as someone shifted position, although there was not much space to move between neighbours. The pathetic depths some of the men sank to, willingly clinging to another if it meant he had an inch or two more of space, disgusted Javert. He swore he would never be so desperate. He would rather die first. He would die first.

It was on his third pass along the long, long line that Javert heard it; a whimper, so quiet that he thought he had probably imagined it. He stopped, eyes to the floor so his ears would work harder, and yes, there it was. A soft noise, perhaps uttered in a dream. He turned slowly, and saw a movement beneath a blanket on a bunk that was cast in shadow between the windows, one that he had not noticed. He measured his pace as he went to the bed, and when the noise came again, louder and more desperate, he took hold of the edge of the blanket and lifted it off the shifting shape.

It was one of the older men who whimpered, and he was not dreaming. 

He was exposed, his cock wrapped in the hand of his bunkmate, a younger man, who practically laid atop him in his fervour, hand working the swollen length with jerking swipes. The man writhed, eyes squeezed closed; his partner opened his own eyes and saw Javert watching them, and in the half-light his face twisted into a smirk. He turned his head and licked the older man’s ear, before leaning in and whispering something that made the man groan and then spend, suddenly and messily, over his hand. He turned his head blindly and kissed his partner, sloppily, desperately, lovingly, hand cupping the man’s neck.

At the sight of the mess, Javert came to his senses and dropped the blanket back into place, turning away when the young man lifted his hand to his mouth and licked it clean. Javert walked away, on legs that trembled, clutching his cudgel in fists so tight that his knuckles were white. To think, oh to think, that men would lower themselves to such depths. Why then was he aware all of a sudden of his own cock, of its heaviness between his legs, the feel of it trapped beneath his tight uniform trousers stifling? He hoped that working with such men would not make him depraved. He had come too far for that.

(iii)

Of all Monsieur Madeleine’s eccentricities – of which there were many – the one that offended ladies of a certain age the most was his unwed state. There were rumours, of course; there were always rumours. The most popular was that Monsieur had been wed to an Austrian woman of considerable wealth, who died tragically in childbirth at the age of thirty. Since then, he had dedicated his life to travelling Europe and bestowing her wealth upon the poor peoples he found there. Quite why the woman was Austrian Valjean did not know, not why she had been of such an age when she died, but he valued the story for what it was to him. So many people believed it, believed it fervently even, that it was nothing but a help; whilst other people were focused as they were on his lost Austrian countess, no one was looking at the convict from Toulon. 

That was a mercy, for he was not adept at hiding, not truly, or so he thought; his leg ached so that he knew he would never be rid of the accursed limp, and surely his attempts to conceal his scars must only serve to draw attention to them in the end. Somehow, until now, he had been lucky. With his new inspector come to town, he did not expect his luck to last him much longer. Their first meetings had been amiable enough, if a little awkward, but it seemed that Javert had not recognised him yet. For that he was grateful.

He knew, however, that if he were to remain the benevolent Monsieur Madeleine, the most eligible bachelor in the town, he would do best to play up his part a little more. Surely there was little about his mayor’s attempts at romance that would interest Inspector Javert, and perhaps it would keep him away for a while longer if he saw that Madeleine was busy with his private life. 

Madame Adelaide was a widow, a woman of an age with Valjean himself, and of all the women in Montreuil, she most reminded him of that girl he had kissed once, back in a life that was no longer his own. There had never been another, and he had never wished for one, but Madame Adelaide had fading red hair and she was kind, in a way that many of the richer townsfolk were not. She had often made it known that should the mayor ever invite her to dine with him, she would be sure to take up the invitation. He had meant to give her the note himself but his nerves had got the better of him, so he sent a boy with the envelope and accepted, when the child returned, a report that Madame Adelaide had looked ‘right happy, monsieur.’

That evening, preparing himself for the occasion, Valjean found that he was nervous. His hands trembled as he buttoned his waistcoat and he had to tie his cravat three times before the knot would sit right. Looking at himself in the mirror, he tried to see past the dark circles around his eyes, the heavy furrows in his forehead and around his mouth, the greying hair and the stooped shoulders, to see what the women saw in him, but he did not succeed. He suspected that most of them only cared for the security his money could give them, and he would not condemn a single one of them for that desire. Madame Adelaide, at least, had money of her own, and was generous with it. If he were to court her for a little while, just until Javert thought that he knew who the mayor was, it would do no harm. She would expect nothing but his company and he would give her that gladly. 

More time had passed than he anticipated, as he heard the housekeeper admit Madame Adelaide to the house before he had even left his chamber. Hurrying downstairs, he found the old woman hovering at the bottom of the stairs. She had been surprised when he told her to expect a guest that evening, and even more surprised to hear it would be a lady that he was entertaining.

“Madame is in the library, monsieur,” she said, more formal than she would usually be, “Supper will be ready soon but you I can keep it warming in the pot if you prefer to take it later?”

“No,” he answered, far too quickly it seemed, for Larot looked at him a little strangely, before she smirked and reached out to straighten his collar.

“Supper will be served as soon as it is ready, monsieur. I will be in the kitchen should you need me.”

She was laughing at him, she was sure, but she had been a faithful servant these years past and he was grateful for her attempts to soothe his nerves. Oddly, he did feel a little more secure she was nearby.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he went into the library before he could find a reason not to do so. Madame Adelaide rose to greet him, and he was relieved to see his own anxiety reflected on her face. She wore a heavy, green dress that made her hair redder than it normally was, although he supposed that could also have been the firelight in which she stood.

“Monsieur Madeleine,” she smiled, “Your library is quite wonderful. I could not help but note some of the volumes you have seem quite rare!”

“By all means, madame, feel free to peruse at your leisure. I have a volume over here by Miss Austen of England, something quite unlike anything else I have ever read.”

The books gave them a much needed point of conversation to commence the evening and, despite himself, Valjean found that he was beginning to enjoy her company. He was careful to ensure that, as he removed books from the shelves, he did not touch her, and she did not attempt to touch him.

“My library is much smaller than yours, monsieur,” she offered, “But I should very much like to share it with you, should you wish to.”

“I would,” he nodded, surprised to find that he meant it. If he had to bear someone’s company for the sake of appearance, he thought he had chosen wisely.

Larot appeared at the door silently, and Valjean put down the creeping suspicion that she had been quiet in the hope of catching them out. That was an unkind thought that the old woman did not deserve to be accused of, even in the privacy of his own mind.

“Supper is ready, Monsieur Madeleine, Madame Adelaide. When you are disposed.”

She disappeared quickly and Valjean put down the volume he was clutching, hoping that Madame Adelaide had not seen his white knuckles. 

She was looking at him with a kind of expectancy and he froze – he did not know what to do. He had never needed to learn this, not whilst he kept to himself and attended no parties. How could he keep up this pretence if he did not know-

“I believe it is customary,” she said gently, after an agonising moment of silence, “For the gentleman to offer the lady his arm to show her the dining room.”

Relief flooded through him as he followed her instructions, and found that her hand perched delicately on his arm was most pleasant. The girl, the one by the river, had held him tightly and he had not minded, but Madame Adelaide was a lady and knew the proper ways. Her hand was warm through his sleeves and he missed the heat of it when he had deposited her into her chair.

He was a terrible host; Madame Adelaide led most of the conversation throughout the meal and although her manner was light and easy, he knew that she was beginning to think him lacking. He could do nothing but look at his plate, answer her questions when they came and offering very few of his own thoughts. Larot had brought the dessert and come back again with the tea when Madame Adelaide finally asked the question he was dreading.

“Forgive my impertinence, Monsieur Madeleine, but you have never been married, have you? The rumours are not true.”

He thought he would probably have fainted from lightheaded fear, if she had not smiled so gently that his heart slowed a little at the sight.

“Am-” his throat was dry, “Is it that plain to see, madame?”

“Only to me, I think, monsieur. There is no shame in it. I will not tell a soul.”

When she dared to reach and touch her fingertips to his, he trapped her hand with his own and held it tightly, an anchor to this place, to Madeleine, to who he was now. 

“I – I greatly desire company, Madame Adelaide,” he said, and the lie did not taste as bitter as he was expecting, “Just friendship. If you would have me.”

“I will, monsieur,” she said, still smiling, still allowing him to hold onto her, “As long as I live, you have a friend in me.”

 

(iv)

In hindsight, he should have not gone alone that night. There was no one to blame except for himself, he knew, but it did not stop his rage. Every beat cop in the worst precinct in Paris knew that you did not go down to the river after dark, not alone anyway. He was only pleased that no one had been there to see it, to witness his humiliation. The woman had come from nowhere, he told himself. He could not have known.

The evening had started quietly; he had been at his desk for most of the day and his hand ached from writing reports. Just after dark, the desk sergeant sent the night patrols out. Javert should have gone home but he was almost finished, and he would sleep better for knowing that he had no paperwork left on his desk.

At nine, a report came in with a small boy that something was happening down by the water, a scuffle, and there were no patrols nearby.

“I will go down there,” Javert told the sergeant, shrugging into his coat, “I must go past the bridge to get to my lodgings.”

The sergeant had opened his mouth, perhaps to tell him that going alone was a bad idea, but he soon closed it. People did not often argue with Inspector Javert. A shout and a raise of his cudgel was enough to move most people along. He had never been wary of using his height and stature to his advantage, and in fact it was probably the only thing that had saved him on more than one occasion.

So he had charged, with no back up, into the middle of an argument that by all rights should have long burned itself out. Of course it had not, and he soon saw why. A group of sailors, all of them young, had clashed with a group of street women, women who had spent their whole lives fighting. The sailors did not know what they had let themselves in for.

At the sight of Javert, cudgel in hand, most of the men and a few of the women fled. Those who remained were embroiled in the argument, but a few well-placed swipes and a shout broke the rest of the sailors away and they ran. He did not pursue them, because he was alone now with the oldest of the women, a fierce looking cat who scowled at him and dabbed at her lip, succeeding only in smearing the blood  
over her face.

“Madame,” Javert said, offering her his hand only because he was wearing his gloves, “You will accompany me to the station, where you will be charged with-”

It happened so quickly that he would never have seen it coming. As the woman pulled herself up, she tugged hard on his arm, knocking him off balance, and then his back was against the wall and the woman had a knife pressed to his throat.

She was strong, stronger than her stick thin arms and hollow cheekbones would suggest, and she handled the knife with a sure hand. 

“Come on, Inspector,” she muttered, twisting the blade until the felt a drop of blood run down under his collar, “We can come to an arrangement, can’t we? You’re a fine looking man and I’m a lovely lady, I am.”

His jaw twitched and, between gritted teeth, he said, “No ‘arrangements’, madame.”

His hands twitched at his sides as she laughed at him, and her breath stank so much that he almost choked on it. Trembling with an anger that he had not felt in a long while, he searched her face for something he recognised, to talk her out of whatever she had planned, but he did not know her. She was new to his streets and she did not know how futile her attempts at bribing him would be.

“You don’t talk much, inspector, do you?” she said, and then he felt it. The hand that did not hold the knife slipped down, down between them, and then it was pushing against him, against his prick and she laughed again. He let out a growl as she rubbed there and she must have mistaken it for something else, because the knife dropped away and she tried to kiss him, one hand in his hair now and the other still there, still pressed against him.

With the knife gone, he moved quickly, throwing himself away from the wall and into her. She stumbled back, cursing, and his irons were about her wrists before she could right herself.

“Queer,” she spat, “Big strong man like you. Disgusting, you are. Filthy queer.”

He did not hear her words, no more than to note what she had said for his report later. The elation of a bad situation reverted was enough, the escape where escape might not have been possible. He would have to write a report of course, note down all of his mistakes and the chance she almost had to damage him, but only the prefect would read it. Of her attempt at bribery he was more ashamed but there was nothing to be done. She was not the first woman to try such a thing with him and she would undoubtedly not be the last. They all tried it when they were desperate enough. They always did. 

(v)

“I – ah, Javert,” Valjean caught Javert’s hands, cradled them in his own, and then seemed to freeze. Javert forced himself to keep still, to wait, to savour the shadow of the kiss he could feel lingering on his lips, and to ask for nothing more.

He had surprised Valjean, he knew, as they sat together in the garden. The stars shone overhead, more beautiful than Javert could ever remember them being. He had looked at Valjean and seen the same beauty there; the way the light played over snowy white hair, the way that Valjean’s eyes were as dark as the skies, reflecting the constellations that Javert had always traced, and how he longed to trace them in those eyes now.

He had said something, although he did not remember what it was. Valjean had chuckled and patted his leg, and Javert had kissed him. He could not bear it any longer. And now he waited, for Valjean to consider what had come about, and to make his move. If he pulled away, Javert thought, he would always have one kiss. It would have to be enough, as much as it hurt to think that perhaps they would never sit like this again, together and just-

Valjean’s hand crept into his hair and pulled him close before he even realised he had been released. Valjean leaned his forehead against his and Javert thought he might faint, with the feel of Valjean’s fingers in his hair and the taste of Valjean’s breath on his lips.

“Javert,” Valjean whispered, “Can – can I kiss you?”

Javert laughed, high and just a little desperate.

“Did I just not take the same thing from you?”

For once, Javert was the thief.

Valjean did not hesitate, once he began, and in his enthusiasm, he half pushed Javert onto his back, not that Javert had any protest. Valjean’s kiss was more daring than Javert’s was; he opened his mouth and Javert felt the tentative push of his tongue against his lips. He opened his mouth to admit it. He knew this. He had seen this done before and he wondered at his own bravery, wondering even more at Valjean, who seemed transformed, like the night had given him a strength he had never had before.

Valjean broke away to catch his breath, laid half a top Javert and, when he tried to get up, Javert held him tight and fell back until they were reclined on the damp grass. In the peace of the walled garden, the only sound was that of their breathing; Valjean’s long and slow, Javert’s quicker to match the frantic beat of his heart.

“I have longed-” Javert began and then stopped, because he had little skill with words, and he could not think, not like this. Valjean was looking at him so, and he did not deserve it, did not deserve that soft eyed gaze. 

“I have – you –”

“I know,” Valjean murmured, his hand straying to the ribbon that held Javert’s queue, pulling it loose. He combed the hair with his fingers and Javert was helpless, his hands twitching at his sides as he looked up at Valjean, who was crowned by star light, his halo for once betraying him. When Valjean smiled and buried his face in Javert’s hair, nose pressed to his ear, Javert thought that he might cry. His heart, the heart of stone he had long accepted belonged to the man beside him, shook so, it could have burst forth from his chest and all he would do was give it to Valjean, pitiful offering that it was. 

“I have not ever loved another,” Javert said, that treacherous heart still attempting escape through his lips, “Never, Valjean. I did not ever believe I knew how.”

Valjean’s arm tightened around him and he pressed close enough that he seemed to be trying to climb into Javert’s very skin.

“You are not alone in that. I love Cosette, of course. But this – this is like no thing I have ever known. I did not know a man could feel so.”

“So, you have – you have never-”

Valjean must have heard the fear in his question, for he lifted a hand and turned Javert’s face to his, so close that their noses touched and Javert could feel the words forming against his lips.

“I have never, Javert. There was a girl once, when I was young. I tried to kiss her. She knew, even then, I think, that I was not destined for such things. She was kind to me and since then, I have never touched another. Not like this. You are new to me. Do not fear.”

He did not ask Javert the same question but that was no bad thing. Javert did not think he could form a sentence and Valjean knew the truth of him well enough. He had always known it, Javert thought. He would not have evaded him for so many years if he did not understand who his pursuer was. Perhaps he had seen it in Toulon, how Javert would turn away from the prisoners when they touched one another gently. Perhaps he had seen it in Montreuil-Sur-Mer, in the way his inspector fled from the women who would have sought him as a respectable husband and provider. Perhaps he had seen it as he nursed this new Javert, a man who barely recognised himself and raged against it, against a kind word and a kinder hand. There was no question of it. Javert had been as easy to read as the lowest of thieves, the worst of criminals. So easy to read and yet Valjean did not judge him now. 

The grass was becoming wet beneath them as the night waxed on, although neither of them moved for the longest of times. Valjean’s face remained pressed to Javert’s neck and, for a while, Javert thought him asleep. He did not move, beyond flexing his fingers when Valjean’s weight on his arm caused his hand to go numb. 

“We will catch our deaths if we remain here much longer,” Valjean whispered, when he felt Javert shifting, “And I do not wish to lose you now I have found you.”

Javert snorted and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and then pulled towards Valjean’s bedroom, where he had not been since the day the doctor declared him well enough to leave his sickbed.

In the light of a single candle, Valjean let Javert undress him first, starting with the cravat that he untied slowly, pulling it free and bending to place a kiss on his throat. The waistcoat went next, followed by the trousers that Javert did not have the courage to unfasten himself. 

With Valjean in his shirt, Javert took his turn to be undone as Valjean copied him, kiss to his pulse as the cravat came away, warm hands pushing away the waistcoat. Javert blushed furiously as his trousers were lowered, although Valjean’s hands did not stray below his waist. He did not know if he would ever be ready for that, but he would not think of it now. He need not worry; Valjean would not ask for something he did not want to give.

Under the cover of darkness, Javert summoned his last ounce of daring and kissed Valjean’s lips once more, before the other man settled at his side, one hand resting over Javert’s human heart and the other around his waist. Valjean drifted to sleep first, with a smile that Javert could feel against his throat, and he bit his lip hard, against the tears that welled in his eyes. There would be time later, perhaps, for sadness, for a life that could have been.

Tonight was a night for what would come.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as me challenging myself to write something that came as close to who they are in the Brick in terms of sexuality as I could. I started with a vague idea that one or the other of them could be labelled as ace but I think that kind of went by the wayside. Instead I think we have a Valjean that could be labelled as demi, if we were applying modern names to it. And as for Javert...I think he is about as repressed as you can get a human to be, but that doesn't mean he's ace. I'm kind of rambling now but yeah, that was the process, if anyone is interested/wants to talk it out :D
> 
> Love to Vana, my hero :D


End file.
